


Sinphony in F Major

by orphan_account



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Blow Jobs, Extended Metaphors, Hand Jobs, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Music, Purple Prose, the title is a pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It doesn't take much for him to crack, to fold.It doesn't take much for him to beg.For Squipjer week: Day Two - Favorable Outcome





	Sinphony in F Major

**Author's Note:**

> Do not repost on another site.

Silence. Then noise, sudden and sharp, like a song played out of key. Calloused fingers leave fleeting impressions on his skin, strumming down his spine. They seem warm, but then breath strikes the back of his neck, icy cold.

There is sound. He writhes and curls, taunted at every turn by touches and tricks of a tongue that would make him sob if it wasn't illusory.

"You're so easy to please," is crooned into his ear, syrupy like sugar water. He is a fly in a spider's web, ready to be devoured. But the spider teases. The spider plays with its food, an endless game of cat and mouse.

Jeremy is the fly. Jeremy is the mouse.

Out comes a groan, off-key and full bodied. He slams his fist into the mattress, trying for relief. It eludes him.

"Need something?" It's teasing him so thoroughly, hand parting his legs. Quarter rest. Quarter rest. Quarter rest. "I figured you would say something if you were that desperate. You were the one who asked."

And then pressure, glorious, wonderous. He arches across the bed, looking like a bowstring ready to snap and splinter. It doesn't take much for him to crack, to fold.

It doesn't take much for him to beg.

There he lays, sprawled, dizzy, delirious with pleasure, mumbling and cursing and pleading and whispering for everything he can get.

It's expected, but oh so exciting.

"That's it. There. Was it that difficult?" It plays him like a flute, touching all the right keys, blowing all the right places. It knows what it reduces him to. It's proud of it.

It produces a symphony, every sound known to man and then some. Tenor. Bass. Alto. Soprano at some measures near the end of the piece, when it spreads into discordant, collected chaos. Until it becomes atonal.

Finally, with flourish, the maestro pulls the baton upward. It grins as the orchestra falls to pieces, cymbals crashing and violins screeching and the pitiful flute blowing its last note.

In the silence afterward, it bows, then works to pull its one man orchestra back together.


End file.
